Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus
by PotterQueenBee
Summary: They all grew up differently, different values, different origins. One dream brought them together, and thus they founded our beloved Hogwarts. This is a story of morals, young dreams and about how you must never, ever, tickle a sleeping dragon!
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Hermione stacked three more books on the library desk to take up to the Gryffindor common room. She needed them to study for Potions, she _needed _to get an "O" in her O.W.L.S this year.

"Hello Hermione!" said Luna skipping towards her, carrying a small leather-bound book under her arm. Hermione sighed wearily. She did not have time for Luna's nonsense right now.

"Hello, Luna. I'm a bit busy right now…how about we talk later?" she tried to sound as kind as possible.

"Oh, well….I just came to give this book to you. I found it in our common room, thought you'd like it. " She said, brightly. Hermione took the book from Luna's hands. It was a bit dusty.  
"What's it about?" she looked up at Luna, frowning.  
"It's about the Four Founders, it's different…"  
"Are you sure you're allowed to take this from the Ravenclaw common room, Luna?"  
Luna shrugged and said nonchalantly "Well, no one reads from the bookshelf I took it, so no one will necessarily miss it, I guess. "  
Hermione paused and thought. Did she want to waste her precious time reading it? If Luna liked it, it must be full of lies, she thought.  
"Well, huh, I'll give it a go, Luna. Thanks, see you at supper." And she walked hurriedly towards the Gryffindor common room. When she was just in front of the Fat Lady, she dropped the book, and saw written in golden letters _"Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus". _The school motto?

"Come on, say the password!" The Fat Lady demanded.  
"Mimbulus Mimbletonia"


	2. I

I

"Stop throwing snowballs at your neighbours! You know that is very unchivalrous of you," said Gaia. Godric didn't like her mother's need to make a good impression. He was already sixteen years of age, and did not like to be constantly reprimanded by her.

"Fine, mother. But you have to admit that they are old warts, they are" he answered, leaning against a wooden fence built to separate their house from the other.  
"Watch what you say, and hide your wand! You know we are suspected!"  
"But-"  
"No." Gaia said shortly, whilst augmenting her pace towards the snow-covered path that led to the main square of the village.

She knew she and her family were being watched, particularly by their neighbours, and suspected of witchcraft. They had seen Godric duelling against one of his friends, a good-looking young man. Some of the people of Gorllewinol* were wizards, and naturally, one of them had performed a Memory Charm on the onlookers. However, Gaia was unsure and knew that it may not have worked on everyone.

Godric decided against following his mother, wherever she was going, and ran back home. His feet were burning with cold and were damp from walking so much in the snow, but he did not care. He opened the front door and climbed up the stairs. His father, named Gwyndell, heard him but did not go after him for he was too busy reading a letter that his owl, Wyrhe, had just brought back.

Both father and son shared the same traits. They were strongly built and their good-natured smiles made people feel comfortable and safe. They were both red-haired, the father sporting a short beard and long hair. The only thing Godric had inherited from Gaia were his green eyes; Gwyndell's eyes were hazel.

Eventually, Gwyndell decided to go see what his reckless son was up to. Godric was known for being fair and just, but also quite hot-headed, in Gorllewinol. He found Godric sitting on the the wooden floor. He was turning stones into red-feathered birds. He would lift the stones up high in the air, twirl his wand and a bird would appear the next second in mid-air, just as the stone had started to fall back to the floor.

"Morning, father" Godric said half-heartedly, as he put his wand beside him on the floor, and the last bird flew out of the open window.  
"You should change, your mother will not be happy to find melting snow inside the house when she comes back."  
"Well, mother isn't too happy anyways, so I won't bother"  
"What have you done now? You know that mother is not feeling too well at the moment"  
"Nothing important."

Gwyndell looked at him sternly, and then down to his feet. He was thinking. How could he tell Godric that his mother had reasons for being worried? He knew that Godric was interested in little more than duelling and morphing objects into other things, but he was going to have to listen anyways. He sat down in front of his son and sighed before looking at him. "We have to be careful. You saw what happened to that Abbott boy's mother, don't you?" Godric swallowed hard. He remembered, alright, he'd been to her funeral. He remembered the sombre faces and swollen, red eyes. Godric closed his eyes and could not imagine the pain the family must have felt.

"Yes, Father" Godric said, this time his voice much quieter and solemn.  
"And what happened to them, can happen to us, and to any wizard family we know. Your mother and I were worried sick when you duelled against that stupid boy. This cannot go on." He tried to say this quietly, because he didn't want Godric to hear the fear in his voice. This was useless, for Godric knew his parents were scared. He was too, but he felt that if he ever had the chance to fight against muggles for his life, he would.

"It is not safe to practice magic." His father concluded. Godric gasped and raised his eyebrows so much they were hidden under his fiery hair.  
"You cannot do that, father! I love magic!"  
"It's too dangerous."

And with that, Gwyndell stood up and walked slowly towards the door. He looked back at his son, "It's for your safety, and that's final" and closed the door behind him. Godric watched him, and as soon as he was gone, kicked the wall with rage. His parents were right, and he knew it.

-0- 

Helga skipped along the frozen river. It was a sunny winter day, with the snow shimmering and reflecting little specks of light. The icy river showed the sky above, and one could hear the twittering birds in the background, along with the trickling of the melted snow. When you looked ahead, you could see the Welsh valleys rising, covered in white.

She was heading home when a scream pierced her ears. She stopped immediately and turned around, but it was in vain, for she could not see anything. She ran up the path looking between the white trees. She thought she could distinguish a small boy in the distance so she picked up her brown kirtle** with both of her hands and sprinted to the boy. She was almost out of breath when she saw what had happened.

A brown-haired, skinny and pale young boy had fallen into the frozen river and was gasping for air. Putting her ginger locks behind her plump ears and pulling up her sleeves, Helga kneeled on the cold ground and yelled, "Do you know how to swim?" The boy obviously must have heard her because he turned around, his face lighting up as he saw his saviour. But then he shook his head and gasped "No, I don't, and I can't get up, it's too slippery!" And just as he said this, Helga slipped and fell on her bottom. Her skirt was wet and cold and she felt her legs tickling with the cold. She repositioned herself and screamed "Hold my hand!" She was dangerously leaning towards the river, but she held on tight to a tree's nearby roots.

The boy made a final effort and managed to hold Helga's hand. Helga dragged him up with all of her strength and managed to lift half of the boy's body. He then lifted one leg up and used it to push the rest of himself upwards. Without another word, Helga said "Let us go, you need to have a change of clothes and a warm place to rest." The boy just nodded, breathless and followed her eagerly.

After a few minutes of walking, they got to a small and modest house, nested between the start of the mountain and the green fields that covered the middle of the valley. It was made out of stone, with exception of the ceiling which consisted of polished planks of wood held in place with many nails. She opened the door quietly and called "Mother!" a few times, but there was no one there. After inviting him in, she told him, pointing towards a large, squishy-looking armchair fashioned out of leather, "Sit down on the armchair, over there. I'll get you a change of clothes."

He sat down and observed. There was a cauldron that emitted a soft and sweet-tasting smell placed on the fireplace. The floor was impeccable and so was the wooden table. He was very impressed. He walked around the room, examining, but sat down as soon as he heard Helga's short and quick steps coming from the nearby room. She threw the clothes onto his arms and said "There are a couple of bushes behind the hut, you can change there."

"Thank you, you're very kind," he said after putting on a chemise, a woollen tunic along with cotton trousers that Helga had brought from her father's closet. These garments were ridiculously enormous on him, but it's all she had for now. "What is your name?" she asked as he turned around observing himself in the mirror above the fireplace. "Jack. Just Jack." He said shortly after clearing his throat. "Not many people would have saved me. Thank you." Helga smiled and said "Well, I believe that treating people kindly and helping them when they need it always ends up paying off."

-0-

The water of the fen was full of circular ripples, which were caused by flat round stones thrown on its surface. It was skinny, tall and blond Salazar who threw these. It distracted him, took his mind off things for a while; it was also something he did when things were not well at home.

He was barefoot and he could feel the water caressing his toes. His brown and ripped tunic, a few inches short, sometimes brushed mud. It was a peaceful afternoon, with reflection of the setting sun reflecting on his pale face, and Salazar was happy to be here.

He sat down and observed the sunset. The grass moved. Funny, he thought, there is no wind today. He craned his neck to try and see what had caused the noise, when a fourteen inch-long grey snake emerged from the grass.*** It slithered all the way to Salazar's feet and looked at him, raising its head and showing its scarlet neck and stomach. Salazar felt uncomfortable at first, and then annoyed.

"_Don't look at me like that. "  
"I'm jusssst obssssssserving youu"_

Salazar gasped. Had he just talked…to a snake?

"_Why are you observing me?"  
"You jussssst sssssseem…diffffferent…"_

The snake slithered away, and left Salazar frozen, looking like a statue. After a few moments of silence, Salazar rushed to put his shoes on and ran home, excitedly. But when he got to the front door, he stopped short.

Mother was probably drunk, as always. Did he want to hear her complaints about how useless he is? Probably not. Salazar's mother was a woman of many virtues, and she often seduced men, and took copious amounts of ale afterwards. This obviously made her an easy target for the villagers' insults. What did they know, about Mother's powers? What did they know about how well she'd taken care of him when Father was here? And how her smile was the most wonderful thing in the world? _Stupid muggles,_ he said to himself.

Salazar was angry. Angry that his mother had been reduced to sitting against the wall all day and not worrying about what he was up to. Ever since Father left, when Salazar was nothing but a toddler, Mother had been a wreck. He took care of her, made her wash and change clothes and opened the windows for some fresh air to come through and ventilate the dark and dull hut. And in return for this, nothing. He could not even make his mother do magic again.

So he continued walking, to an inn. He knew he was not allowed there, but Salazar was tall enough to be confused for a twenty-five year old. He opened the door apprehensively and saw men of various ages, drinking ale and gambling. The candles dimly lit the room, which was full of smoke, floating and making the room smell like burning wood. There was a small fireplace which was used to cook, and this time a copper cauldron was sitting on it, no doubt to heat up the week-old soup.

There were women too. Beautiful women, dressed in nothing but thin gowns which revealed all of their curves and edges. Around them, sweaty-looking men were laughing and teasing them. Salazar shook his head angrily and took a chair, not far away from a small woman. This one though was dressed quite smartly, he thought.

"You look tired," she remarked as he sat down next to her.  
"I just discovered I can talk to snakes," he said jokingly. He expected for the girl to stare at him and move away, or to laugh and say he was jesting. Instead, she said, rather impressed, "Oh, well, that's peculiar. But not unheard of,"

Salazar goggled at her. When she became aware of this, she changed position in her chair and said "You're that Slytherin boy, aren't you?"  
"And you? You're not from here, I can see." He answered her, in a rather challenging tone, and acknowledging her foreign accent.  
"I come from Byzantine****"  
Salazar didn't know where this was, but in truth, he did not care. The woman continued talking, "Long time ago, back when my people were a strong empire, there was a man, Herpo. Today people call him "Herpo the Foul" because he did many evil, unspeakable things. He terrified people, and if they didn't like him, they'd be found dead the next morning" She looked at Salazar, contemplating his reaction. Salazar felt shivers run through his veins. He was both fascinated and suspicious of this woman. "And he could talk to serpents too." Salazar inhaled quickly. "What do you think?" she suddenly said brightly and took a long gulp of ale.  
"Um, this Herpo, looks interesting enough" said Salazar unsurely. In all honesty, he found Herpo terrifying and wonderful. She talked about him as if he was powerful, and that made Salazar look up to him; but at the same time, he did not want to know what these "evil, unspeakable things" were.

That night, a bit tipsy, Salazar stumbled back home thinking about Herpo, the woman from the inn, and about how unfair it was to be called "the Slytherin boy". And he knew that one day, people would look up to him, but for the right reasons.

-0-

The streets were busy on a market day, especially in the mornings. Crowds of people stopped by to buy different herbs or spices, and the narrow streets made it hard to breathe. Rowena had to elbow past most people to stop at an inn, popular because of the numerous wizard clients. No muggle went in there because the place had fame for having "strange folk drinkin' all sorts of revolting things".

She sat down at one of the wooden table, hoping for a moment of peace and silence so she could think, but her thoughts were constantly being interrupted by the growling of various warlocks,

"This game of Creaothceann***** is going to be nasty alright," said a dirty, broad-chested and plump man  
"The weather isn't going to be on their sides, look how cloudy it is! Maybe it ought to be cancelled, don't you think?" a younger lad asked  
"That's bollocks, alright, these players are chickens if they don't play. Gotta know who's the better man, y'know?" another man answered half-laughing.

_Barbaric _she thought. She'd already complained a few times about Creaothceann, how dangerous and ridiculous it was. It was considered the "supreme test of manliness" or whatever her brother, Roland, had said. Well, she'd rather be considered a chicken than die from a concussion. She didn't want him to play, it was dangerous. Many had died on the pitch. _With rocks falling onto your head, who wouldn't._

She was becoming tired of these meaningless discussions, and so she stood up and walked out the door, straight to the outskirts of the town. She dodged the people and bumped into a few without saying sorry. She needed peace. After what seemed hours of relentless marching, she finally stopped at where the village seemed to end and where a hill started downwards.

From there you could observe the Scottish highlands. The horizon was unclear, for the fog was starting to rise. She could hear a stream in the distance and the occasional croak of a toad. Not far away was the Creaothceann pitch, a round, flat surface surrounded by wooden fences placed at two different levels. She lied down on the humid and fresh grass, and let her hair free. She slowly massaged it so the pain of holding it in a tight bun would disappear, and looked up to the grey sky. An eagle was flying, circling the sky, and then posed itself on a stone. However, it quickly turned its neck and looked behind, past Rowen. The sound of the thumping of drums and multiple loud growls were becoming louder and louder. She jumped in surprise and stood up.

She realised that the game was going to start. Rolling her eyes, she went and joined the crowd. She was pushed around and soon she found herself on one of the higher stands, standing on the tips of her toes to observe the match. Today it seemed that more than half of the village had attended the game. You could barely discern the different people with the fog becoming thicker by the minute. A horn sounded in the distance and the crown cheered and whooped deafeningly. And suddenly, stones started to drop. The different players kicked off and tried to avoid the charmed rocks that were dropping, rising and turning in every possible direction, trying to hit as many players as they could.

Imagine her surprise when she saw Roland, with a cauldron on his head and flying on their father's broomstick! Filled with rage, Rowena jumped over the fence and down to the first row, angering the loud and strongly-built men.

"Roland! Roland! Get down here!" she screamed. She was even more surprised when Roland turned his head when he heard his sisters' desperate calls. When he saw her, he smiled and flew higher into the air, not paying attention.

And just like that, a rock flew right into his stomach and knocked him out of his broom. Rowena froze. Everything slowed down for a tenth of a second before she heard the audience's exclamations and regained control of her body. Roland was falling, and her surroundings seemed unreal. She jumped right over the final fence that separated the audience from the pitch and fell, ripping her skirt in the process. She shrieked in pain and stood up. She ran as fast as she could, not caring about the stones, or the men's angry yells or the player's confused expressions. Whipping out her wand, she screamed "_Locomotor Roland!" _and waved the wand slowly down to the muddy ground. Roland's unconscious body fell gracefully on the grass.

"There's a girl on the pitch!" screamed a man, his yell barely distinguishable.  
"Get her out of there and let's continue with the game!"

Rowena turned around, her face reddening and screamed "_Sonorus!" _she could hear them laughing at her "Look at that wee little girl! Sure you don't need a hanky to dry your tears?" _  
"_Stop the game!" her voice echoed through the pitch and the stands. Few were paying attention to the actual match anymore. The same voice cheered "Oh, are we going to cry now?" Rowena looked amongst the audience and saw the man, the same one she'd seen at the inn, laughing with his friends. Eyes full of rage she lifted her wand and screamed "_Densaugeo!"_

The man stopped laughing as soon as he saw his teeth grow past his lower lip. He started complaining as his friends started mocking him. When his front teeth reached the bottom of his tunic, Rowena whispered "_Finite Incantatem" _and turned around to her brother.

People were confused at first, and finally noticed that the rocks had stopped flying. Some were whispering, others smirking. Slowly, the pitch emptied, having called the match to an end, without a winner.

Roland was awake. He coughed a few times and a warm liquid filled his mouth. Rowena placed a Healing Charm on his stomach and said "_Levicorpus" _and carried her brother all the way back. However, when she was in front of their house, there was the man again, his teeth still as long as she'd left them. Rowena stopped right where she was.

He grabbed her arm strongly, his nails sticking into her flesh. She shrieked and stabbed him with her wand in the chest. The man staggered back and howled. "I'll get you, you stupid girl!" but Rowena was already with her wand at the ready and said "_Petrificus Totalus"_

She ran to the front door, waved her wand and lifted her brother's body and placed him on the floor. She sprinted, shut the door and locked it. She collapsed on the floor and whispered,  
_"Alohomora"._

*_Gorllewinol _means "western" in Welsh, and as we know, Godric's birthplace was in south western England, so presumably close to Wales. It wouldn't be called Godric's Hollow until after his death.  
**_A kirtle _is what 10th century women wore, much like a skirt.  
***This snake is common in the fens of Norfolk, in eastern England. It's called a Kirtland snake.  
****Greece was not yet called like this, and that area was occupied by the Eastern Roman Empire, known as the Byzantine Empire, in the 10th century.  
*****Look at chapter 2: _Ancient broom games_ from _Quidditch Through the Ages. It_ is a Scottish medieval broom game where the players wore cauldrons on their head to try and catch the hundreds of charmed rocks flying around the pitch.

**Author's note: **_Names such as Angus (from _anguis_ meaning "snake" in Latin.) or Gaia are chosen for phonetic and etymological purposes. Also, Helga was of Welsh origins and came "from valley broad…." As the Sorting Hat's song goes. Same with the birthplace of the four founders, really._

So as you can see, I put a lot of effort in making the details realistic. I tried making the founder's values (bravery, determination, kindness etc.) visible enough, and tried to make each founder's "part" as equally long as the others. I hope you liked it as a first chapter, I appreciate reviews _ (I also promise I won't write such a long Author's note next time!)_


End file.
